White plume stripped bare—
It is a winding journey when the days are longer, years shorter,
And though you can’t add days to your life, you can add life to your days:
What a privilege it is to fly.
Flocking through the silver hours of morning.
And through earth’s hum, the singing of cicadas beat to Spring’s bloom,
The horizon calling to the winds of East—softly she answers:
Change is coming.
And as the Egret perches, long and lithe, feathers composed,
The valley stiffens, listening to her ruffled breath–moss-filled
lungs sifting the surface.
And through the wayward marshes, her tall arms billowing in
harmony:
There is nothing left for you.
White plume stripped bare—The Great
Egret croons:
Who will I become?
